I am going to tear up pages with words.
Then scrunch them tight into balls to throw
At invisible walls and waste paper bins.

I don’t know what else to do.

I am going to slice through pages
With my pen,
Blackest ink on whitest skin,
A facsimile of me:
Torn, ripped apart, crossed out, mistake after mistake after miraculous mistake.

I will watch then, as ink seeps through the sheets,
Red like my bleeding love.
It’s a stain that spreads wide,
Across our fragile paper of time and place and
It will not be erased
For all your trying.

For my failings?
I am going to write and re-write
The ending I want to hear
Scratching uncomfortable words crudely,
Carving them indelibly into the paper thin walls of your white heart
With a pen I have made of love,
Until there are no pages left and these futile
Words run dry like tearless eye sockets
And I am left with nothing,
Or everything:
Just a pen,
And cool, white paper.

These are the pieces of me –
It hurt when I broke.
But no one looked on
And nobody spoke.
I fell pretty hard
Was knocked from the side
But nobody spoke
And nobody cried
And nobody cared
That I was shattered,

in bits,

What did it matter,
I’d taken worse hits?
But here were the cracks,
I was never that tough
Had been brought pretty cheap
And treated quite rough.
So wrap me in paper,
Until I’m all out of sight.
Throw me away,
I wasn’t worth the fight.

And I will tell you every day
For as many days as I may have,
For as many days and minutes and hours that it may take,
About my here
And how much I love you here
And how much I want you here
And how much I need you here
Until you are brave enough to find me

Just here, not far,

And realise your here,
Is here with me
That you have always been here with me.